If you are underage, or in any way forbidden by your government or religious laws from viewing X-rated subject matter, please do not read this salty tale. If, however, you are not restricted by any laws in your geographical location, by all means read on.

Five days ago my street pal, Hollywood, has informed me that he's seen Larkin more than once, standing outside Twin Peaks Tavern and gazing upon the customers within. Puffing away on his Camel 99 with deliberate introspection, not showing any emotion either positive or negative, but at the same time not speaking with anyone he may know. I cracked up:

"You do realize I got him kicked outta that place more than a week ago! The owner promised me via email that he's permanently 86'd. Which is a good thing, as Larkin acts like he owns the place while his obnoxious groping of old geezers creates a sordid atmosphere that is bad for business."

Apparently, he's established himself at Twin Peaks as a center of operation where he hustles for drinks and other amenities that lonely queers of an advanced age may partake, and which extend beyond those tavern walls. Not that I mind, except for the crude way he manages his enterprise by hostile attacks upon this person to keep me distant, and a shoddy business approach that reflects poorly upon whatever establishment he occupies. I realize that barkeeps desperately need the extra tips he provides by mooching off other patrons with obese billfolds for extra drinks, and any other profitable cuts Larkin may share from his escort services and nightly companionship.

While his illegal machinations benefit employees' bottom dollar, they do jeopardize the tavern's viability in the long run. In other words: I do not mind Larkin's need to hustle in order to survive and even keep a roof over his head. For as far as I know, he's fallen into this Faustian situation in order to protect my /own/ life and well being! I just know there's a better way to pull this off--in subtle methods that do not put any business at risk--and which methods can benefit greatly by my presence.

Yet Larkin refuses to work with me, treating This Dogged Dawg as a direct threat to his happy survival, instead. Which is not just a gross injustice on any level, but a betrayal of my decade-long faith in the jublilation of a most remarkable friendship for which I have paid dearly to maintain. At this point--like any good investor--I refuse to let it all vanish down a disposal chute to become nothing more than forgotten detritus of no significance to anyone else in this world but myself, the Flying Spaghetti Monster and Larkin. Thus I compose my appeal to the world, though first through an email to you, Eleanor. In the event of a grievous outcome in which I shall perish before succeeding in This Consecrated Crusade of My Own Device.

He is obviously avoiding me, as our paths have yet to cross since his eviction. Though I have seen his (former?) housemate, Zachary, sitting at the tavern's counter, as well as walking up Market Street a few days later. Both times he has not seen fit to confront me, or gaze in my direction. He dare not, I guess.

I plan to send him a Christmas packet filled with three or four items, one of which will be a cardboard square with stapled twine, that he may hang the following statement about his neck for several weeks into the new year:

Zeke is not my stalker,
he is my boyfriend.

Which is, of course, a direct assault upon his own gossipy accusations that I am not his boyfriend, but his stalker. Which I have already countered by wearing the following sign about my neck, various times in the earlier months of 2015:

[See image at page top.]

Not one to slack off on my relentless counterattack upon Larkin's undeserved rejection and antagonism, I just sent him another postcard upon which are taped the following images (first the front, then the address side):

Ode to My Street Buddy Zach

I adore that slippery fat cock
in my mouth,
and your sweet Louisiana cum gushing
like a double burst of custard
from a Krispy Kreme.

You are one beautiful boy, Zach.

I love that moonlit eve you squirt
so much jism
it dribbled from my lips
and down your boner,
drenching those bulging testicles
and thighs
in a sweet gumbo of sperm and saliva.
I lapped it all up in fervid passion,
till your basket was clean
as a plate.

Your swollen balls thrust against my lips
begged for more tongue
than I could ever stroke
in a million years.
There is nothing so wonderful
as my face in your writhing crotch!
You moan with the ecstasy of a young derelict
who never imagined such pleasure
could be his.

It is just this abandonment of
such a darling Cajun hustler
without kin or friend,
that arouses my desire to bring you more joy
than you could ever conceive.

I am forever grateful that Hurricane Katrina
drove you from the swamps of New Orleans
and into my ever-loving arms.

Your semen down my gullet quenches my thirst
like the Holy Grail redeems one's spirit.
Thus I speak to you, and to my other
homeless paramours
whom I have likewise pleased: